


Of Curses and Family

by Caedmon68



Series: Bloody Unnatural [1]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Curses, Gen, Magic, Martin is very brave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caedmon68/pseuds/Caedmon68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While flying home, MJN encounters a problem.  Martin is the only one who can fix matters, but it will come with a price.  One he decides to pay, though it doesn’t please his brothers over much</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Curses and Family

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to potentially_26 over on livejournal for the sharp eyes on my grammatical typos. Any constructive criticism won’t go amiss here, as well. I wrote this as a bit of a world building exercise, so it might very well become a series. I’m not sure yet, so we will see about that. This is my first published foray into Sherlock or Cabin Pressure, so it will hopefully suit someone. Hope you enjoy!

Martin bit his lip. There was no way to keep this from everyone else, not when they needed him and what he could do. And he couldn't just let them get hurt, not even to keep the most important secret he had. Not even when doing this could mean the end of his safe, relatively happy life. 

None of the crew of MJN would tell his secret, not even Douglas. At least, Martin didn't think they would sell him out. But there was no way that air traffic control would believe that this was luck, they would know that someone on the crew was an unnatural. Everyone would be asked who had saved them. And it wouldn't take Arthur long to betray Martin. He wouldn't do it on purpose, but he wouldn't even notice that he was signing Martin's death warrant.

“Douglas, you have control.” 

“Martin,” Douglas was preparing for some sarcastic offering, Martin could just see it. But one look at Martin's face stopped him, and he changed what he was planning to say. “What's the plan?” Martin took a deep breath, more thankful than he could ever remember being. Douglas trusted him.

“Just – keep her in the air for as long as you can. Don't try an emergency landing until I tell you to.” There was no way they could land without getting themselves killed, and Douglas knew it. After all, curses weren't meant to let people off easily.

Martin retreated into the minuscule toilet on GERTI, carrying his flight bag. He took another deep breath. He hated doing this more than almost anything. And not just because of the danger of discovery.

Martin grabbed the disposable razor that he kept in his flight bag. No one ever noticed that he carried a spare – or if they did, they assumed he didn't want to shave with a dull razor. Well, he didn't, but that wasn't the reason that he never travelled without at least two of the damned things. 

Next Martin grabbed the blueprints of GERTI that he kept stuffed in a side pocket of his flight bag, near the special pocket that held his license and passport. He was just as careful with these as he was with his documentation – they were more likely to save his life. Which they would today. 

Martin unfolded the blueprints on the floor, sitting astride the toilet to make space. At the edges of the blueprints, Martin used his shampoo and deodorant to keep the papers flat. He wouldn't have the time or attention to fix the papers after he got started. 

Quickly, trying to forget about what he was doing, Martin used an experienced twist of the razor to draw blood on his arm. He hated doing this, but he was thanking whatever good sense had forced him to practice it with disposable razors after getting his first job as a pilot and realising that there was no way he would be able to carry any kind of proper knife with him. 

Martin also grabbed a sharpened dowel rod from his bag. It was by far the most risky thing he carried with him on a regular basis – it was hard to explain why you owned a dowel sharpened like a pencil. If anyone figured out what it was, Martin would be very, very dead. But it made the work so much easier, and the dowel was curtained in so many runes of secrecy that it would be bordering on impossible for anyone to see it without knowing precisely what they were looking for. 

Working fast – before the blood could coagulate – Martin rolled the sharpened tip of the dowel in the gouge he had made with the razor. It was all very messy, and Martin would have another scar to add to his collection, but it worked. And it was hard to get a clean cut with a safety razor, so he was doing the best he could.

Along the edges of the blueprints, Martin drew runes of seeing with his blood. He needed to work fast, but his lines also had to be perfect. Less than a centimetre of line marked the difference between a rune for seeing and one for hiding, as well as the rune for far-sight. Martin didn't have the time – or spare blueprints – to correct mistakes.

The blood sank into the paper, and Martin sighed in relief. It was going to work, then. Martin watched, biting his lip and hoping like hell that the right lines of the blueprints would change. 

They did, thank God. Lines for the cockpit started to turn from an inky black to the same red that Martin had just sketched onto the paper. Martin had a room that needed to be searched – someone had cursed something in the flight deck. 

Then the cabin began to change colours as well. “Shit!” There had been plenty of people in and out of the cabin in the last six months, and any of them could have planted a cursed object somewhere in the public section of the plane. And if Arthur and Carolyn hadn't found it, it was likely well hidden. Martin didn't have time to search the entire cabin, and his blood wouldn't find a more specific location. Not without a larger sacrifice, anyway.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Martin would have to enlist Carolyn and Arthur for help. Douglas too, if he could look over the flight deck and keep the protesting plane in the air for a little while longer.

Tripping over himself, Martin unlocked the bathroom door, almost running into Arthur. “Uh, Skip. Douglas said that you ought to come back to the flight deck, and Mum says that – well she says that she doesn't pay you to spend emergencies in the loo.”

Martin saw the frightened look Arthur was offering and took yet another deep breath. _In and out, Martin. You are a Captain, and you have some talents that no one has ever expected of you._ “Arthur, I need some help, yeah?” Technically, Arthur and Carolyn should be strapped down. In fact, Douglas and Carolyn must have been very worried about Martin to let Arthur up long enough to find him.

“Sure, Skip. What do you need?”

“I need you to go get your Mum and then bring her to meet me in the flight deck. As quickly as you can, both of you straight to the flight deck. Okay?”

“But we are supposed -”

“I know, Arthur.” They were supposed to stay strapped in their seats until Martin or Douglas told them otherwise. Well, now Martin was telling them otherwise, that was for certain. “Tell Carolyn that the time for waiting it out is really, really over, okay? The flight deck,” Martin felt the plane lurch under his feet. So far Douglas had kept it steady, if descending ever so slightly. And he did so with no landing gear functional, nowhere even halfway decent to land, and any reliable steering. Apparently, steady was also gone. “Flight deck, Arthur. Now.”

Martin left Arthur rushing toward his mother, making his way to the flight deck. Whatever was cursed could have been on the plane for up to six months, according to all the rules he had learned as a child, but he couldn't remember anything that had been added in that time frame.

“Douglas!” 

“Decided to come back, have you? Plan all set, then?” Douglas was still trusting him, thank God. Martin didn't know what he would have done if he had to beat Douglas into submission about this. Instead, all he had to do in response was nod.

“I need to know if you have anything with you that you got in the last six months.”

“What do you mean?” Martin bit his lips. 

“Are you wearing new socks; is there anything in this room that wasn't here six months ago? Now Douglas, I need it.” Martin was making no secret of his urgency, and it was clearly enough to keep Douglas complacent.

“Nothing on me, no. But we did get the new warning lights last month. Wiring and all, remember?” Martin nodded. It would be a pain in the arse to curse them – the parts were small and there would be a limit to how much power one could force into the wiring. And anything made of glass – or translucent plastic - would quickly develop a tent that allowed one to see the tampering. But there was one part of the lighting which would hold a curse and not show too many signs. It would hopefully be quite easy to find. 

Still, there went any hope of Martin surviving the next twenty-four hours. So far, he had mostly managed to keep his secret – everyone was suspicious, but no one knew anything incriminating. But they would now, because Martin was going to have to dismantle part of the controls. And everyone else was going to want to know why.

“Fuck!” Martin thought he had resigned himself to his fate, but clearly not. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered retreating to the loo. Quickly, Martin cursed himself for a coward. They didn’t have time for Martin to worry instead of acting.

“That sounds reasonable, as far as reactions go. But may I ask what specifics have driven you to profanity?” Douglas kept both hands on the steering column, but he did glance over to Martin. 

“I'm a very, very dead man.” With that, Carolyn and Arthur came bustling into the flight deck. 

“Are we evacuating then, Douglas?” Carolyn's voice was brisk, and Douglas gritted his teeth.

“I didn't call for you. Shut up and let me fly.” Martin swallowed.

“I need you, Carolyn. What is new in the cabin? It would have come in the last six months or so.” While Martin asked, he reached for the fire axe. If he was going to have to let everyone know for certain that he was an unnatural, he was going to have an easier way to draw blood than a disposable razor; that was for bloody sure.

“Nothing more than light bulbs. Why?” _God, sound urgent enough and even Carolyn shuts up and listens to you._ Martin could recognise the hysterical edge to his own thoughts, but that was fine. As long as he could do what needed doing, it was fine.

“Someone left something on GERTI. Something that doesn't belong, if you haven't gotten anything new. You have to find it, as quick as you can. They likely hid it.” 

“Any hints at what it could be, Martin?” Martin shook his head, already gripping the fire axe and moving toward the warning light they had gotten replaced. 

“It could be anything. Just go look!” Carolyn might have nodded, but Martin missed it. What he saw was that they left the room, and that was more important in any case. Quickly, he turned to face Douglas. “Whatever you have to say about this – just wait until I'm done.” 

Martin mentally ran through the parts of the warning lights, trying to remember the easiest parts to exchange without someone noticing.

The engineers had taken off the label when they replaced the light. It wasn't standard procedure, but the strip of plastic had been coming loose and they had said they would fasten it back on. Martin hadn't thought anything of it. And now he was hoping to hell that someone had hidden a curse on it, because he didn't have the bloody time to go looking for another hiding place in the flight deck.

When Martin had left the bathroom, he had stuffed his dowel behind his ear. Now he was thankful for it as he ran his arm across the fire axe and pulled out the sharpened stick.

“Martin, what the hell are you doing?” Martin ignored Douglas. He would figure it out soon enough, and Martin was _really_ busy right now. Instead, he rolled the point in the well of fresh blood.

“Please, please, please work.” Martin hadn't used these runes in a very long time, and they weren't on the list that he practised drawing every few days, like the runes for hiding and finding were. 

It wouldn't take much blood to loosen the fastenings. They weren't placed to withstand concentrated effort like what Martin was putting in, after all. The runes sunk into the metal in front of Martin, and the small piece of plastic popped into Martin's hand with a gentle push. “Oh, thank God.”

“What was that, Martin?” Douglas's question didn't sound disgusted, and Martin took it to mean that Douglas would keep the peace until they landed, at least.

“You know what it was. And you can do whatever you like about it after we are safely on the ground, but for now shut up because I am the captain!” Martin's voice was lending itself to panic just like his thoughts were, but it was working and that was enough for him.

“Yes, captain.” Martin ignored Douglas's response, instead using the intercom to ask Carolyn his own question.

“Have you found anything?”

“I've discovered that Arthur doesn't always extend his hoovering to under the seats. What do you want?”

“Gum wrappers, papers, anything that you could conceivably write on. Bring it to me, now.” Martin was already turning his attention to the piece of plastic in his hand, flipping it over until he was looking at the back.

There were faint outlines of pencil on it. Martin recognised them – he had made plenty of his own whilst learning and practising. They were guide marks; runes that – until traced in an unnatural's blood – were powerless. They were used innocently to practise or more dangerously, as an outline so that blood could be applied into the same object again and again, using the exact same lines even after the blood disappeared. 

Martin's recognition of the runes was less certain. He had studied curses, but he wasn't interested in hurting anyone else, and he hadn't exactly trained as a protector. But he knew an easy way to break most curses, something that all decent parents with ability taught their children. Ignoring the pencil marks, Martin quickly sketched runes of protection, using pencil to let them sit uselessly atop the plastic, then added runes of breaking, of ending and a quick death. 

He did this with the plastic braced against the controls, freeing his arm against the axe. And quickly, he deepened the cut along his arm. He was going to need a lot of blood.

Martin thrust the label into his arm, letting the edges push painfully against his skin. He needed as much blood as he could get against it, and this was the quickest way he knew without opening more of his veins than he really wanted to. Especially with another curse to break. This would do the task, with the pencil marks acting as a guide to the powers in his blood. There was no finesse, but at the moment Martin didn’t need any.

Martin left the plastic stuck halfway into his arm for a few seconds, with Douglas glancing at him in what appeared to be concern. 

When Martin pulled the label away from his skin, it was utterly clean. It didn't look like it had ever seen a drop of blood, not to mention been a half inch in an erstwhile pilot's arm for almost half a minute. Martin bit his lip, steeling himself for another go when a red-brown stain started to appear down the middle of the plastic. The stain spread until, with a soft crack, the plastic split in two.

“One down,” muttered Martin, slipping the two pieces into his pocket. They would be safe now, and his brother would want to see them after they landed.

With his concentration on the curse, Martin had missed Carolyn and Arthur's reappearance. He only noticed them now, while Carolyn was looking over the various paraphernalia that they had dragged onto the flight deck.

“Here, Martin. This is, I believe, what you are looking for. Some idiot had thrust it as deep in between two seats as one could hope to reach without equipment.” Carolyn held out what looked like an old receipt, on which Martin could see faint pencil marks.

“Thanks.” Martin looked over the marks quickly and groaned, though he also wanted to sigh in relief. Thank God he had been looking for blood before, and not curses. Because he would have missed this – it wasn't really a curse. Just a spell that definitely meant nothing good for an aeroplane.

He could recognise the rune for fall, as well as one for earth and one for water. The curse had been meant to steal control from the pilots, but this was just a spell meant to encourage falling, of the sort that Martin's brother had used to convince him to jump from a tree to his arms when Martin had been trapped by his own panic, or the ones that Martin himself had used to sober up the same brother when he did something terminally stupid.

But planes weren't supposed to fall. And this couldn't be broken like a normal curse. Martin was going to have to give it more blood than its maker had done, and given how slow and controlled their decent had appeared, that was going to be a lot of blood.

“Douglas, you have the landing.” Martin took a deep breath, and turned to Carolyn. “Go strap yourselves in. I doubt the landing is going to be smooth.”

“And are you going to strap yourself in? Martin?” Martin nodded. He wasn't going to just stand and wait to bash his head in, he was certain about that. But first he needed to put away the fire axe. There was no way that this landing was going to be of the sort that they wanted a loose axe floating around the flight deck.

First Martin needed to draw some more blood, cursing all the way. Whoever had made this had likely spent a week at least on it, drawing their own blood and then resting, repeating the process until they were content with the power. 

Or they had just killed an unnatural and bled them dry for it. Martin could feel how much power had one into this, and it was far more than was safe. And now he was going to have to do the same to himself.

Well, at least it might save Douglas, Arthur, and Carolyn from some uncomfortable questions if he was dead. Though that did mean he would need a favour. And Douglas was the only person he could ask.

“Could you do me a massive favour?” Douglas looked at Martin again, and this time he was more worried than Martin had ever seen him.

“And what could the lowly Douglas Richardson do to assist the esteemed and mighty captain?” Martin could hear the sarcasm in the question, and mentally he leaned on the scant comfort.

Using the pen and one of the safe bits of paper Carolyn had pulled from the cabin, Martin jotted down two phone numbers, writing _call_ by one and _text_ by the other. “Get a hold of these two numbers as soon as you have a phone. Tell them that little brother says thanks,” _More than anything, and for more than you could ever guess, thank you_ “and that he needs one more thing from them. Lay low. Please, Douglas.” Martin – if he wasn't dead when they landed – would be missing quite a lot of blood and in custody. Either way, he would be in no shape to contact his siblings.

“And other than that – just land GERTI. I can likely work something out, Capitan. It seems that you owing me favours is becoming more and more frequent.”

Martin laughed, though he knew was mostly a hysterical giggle. “Thanks, Douglas.”

Martin tied the axe firmly to his chair using his jacket as a very short rope, then used the pen to write out the runes he would need on the spelled paper and dragged his arm down the fire axe, letting it open at least one major vein near his wrist, which he hoped to hell that he had only nicked. Then he sketched runes across his arms, ones that would encourage free bleeding. He didn’t want to have to interrupt himself to draw more blood, and he was likely to bleed out before they landed in any case. And it wasn’t like there wold be anything good when they landed, not for him. 

As quickly as he could, he started tracing the runes he had written. Before the first set of runes had finished disappearing, Martin was tracing them again. It was a repeating process, one that Martin was quickly coming to hate. 

Martin forced himself to concentrate on the runes in front of him. Nothing but the lines he was copying onto the paper again and again was allowed to cross his mind. After all, it would be all too easy to miss something when he was losing massive amounts of blood through his arm. Or what felt like massive amounts, in any case.

Most of Martin's concentration (what wasn't firmly on a little piece of wood and his own blood) was ensconced in ignoring the vicious humming from his first officer. It was an incredibly aggressive version of the soft, musical tune that Douglas hummed absently whenever he was concentrating on something. 

It was hard to ignore, especially since it hinted at just how worried Douglas was, and just how much effort it was taking not to ram them into the ground. 

None of Martin's internal CPUs were devoted to an internal clock, and as such he had no idea what time it was when he finally, finally, seemed to be countering the power embedded in the paper. 

The blood was soaking in more slowly, and the paper was developing the light tint of red that meant it was over saturated. Martin kept drawing, painting blood over still wet blood now as it soaked so slowly that Martin finished and started again before it soaked in.

Finally, after what seemed to be years and seconds at the same time, the piece of paper turned a dark, shimmering red. Martin was finished, though he felt too woozy and sleepy to really compute it. In fact, all he could manage was the mutter to Douglas, “Good to land now.”

He almost missed Douglas's response of, “Landing now, Captain,” before he let himself fall unconscious.

_*_

“When was the last time you ate, Martin? Idiot, you know that not everyone can skip meals and function. Normal people lack my functionality, as well as my brain.” Martin blinked slowly. He knew that voice, though he heard it very rarely nowadays.

He was distracted from the mystery of the familiar voice by the feeling of his lip, which was rather swollen. He must have bitten it whilst he was working on the runes for GERTI.

Runes. Blood. That would explain why he was unconscious, though it didn't explain why he wasn't locked up in a secure room “for his own safety.” He had used a lot of blood to help Douglas land GERTI; he had bitten his lip in pain while he kept using the wound on his arm, kept himself bleeding. And Douglas had clearly landed, but -

Martin needed to see the rest of MJN. Just to make sure that they were all okay, of course. It would make sense if they wanted to avoid him after what they had learned, but he needed to know that they were all safe. They had treated him better than anyone other than family for years, he owed them their safety.

Martin opened his eyes, and saw the owner of the voice that had woken him up. Tall, pale, dark-headed, and more worried looking than Martin had seen him since they were very young, when Martin had gone missing and they couldn't find him. 

“'erlock? Did Douglas call?” Or text. Martin remembered writing text beside Sherlock's number, though whether Douglas would do so was questionable. Still, someone had gotten a hold of Martin's brother for him. “Told you to lay low.”

“Yes, your friend did mention something about you telling me what to do. I ignored it. After all, he also said that you had half-killed yourself by drawing a significant amount of blood after not eating a proper meal in over a week. I decided your advice wasn’t worthwhile.”

Martin was starting to feel a little more like himself, between his head clearing (how long had he been out? – long enough for the dizziness and lost feelings of lack of food and blood to have passed) and Sherlock's barbed conversation, which felt more comforting than any number of platitudes would have.

“Is everyone okay then?”

“You mean the idiots you fly a plane for in your spare time? They are fine, all worried and moping about you being in danger. Tedious, all of it.” Martin grinned. Sherlock was talking as if he hadn't spent the last however-long-it-was making life hell for everyone in the hospital with his own worry. And Martin knew enough about his brother to know that that was exactly what he would have been doing.

“Good. Good. That's – good.” 

“Yes, we've established that you are relieved to find all of your moronic friends in good health, you seem to find starvation amusing, and our little secret remains, for the most part, intact.”

“You mean they don't know about anyone but me? Thank God.” Martin sighed. He had worried that someone would figure out that Martin had two brothers who shared the right blood. As long as no one knew, they wouldn't be targeted.

“I'm pretty sure your first officer has figured out that I am rather like you – at least in blood. However, I do believe that he will keep that information as quiet as he will keep the fact that you are more valuable than you appear.”

“You mean? Do you really? But – but – someone has to figure out about GERTI. And not many people could fix it, so they have to know about me. I mean, Arthur can never keep a secret. And it’s really better that they know it is me rather than think it is one of the others. And - “

“Your blood tested clean. The hospital checked, of course, just as they checked the blood of all your co-workers." Martin wondered how much tampering that had taken to organize. He also wondered if it had been Sherlock or Mycroft who planned it.

“Thanks.” Sherlock shrugged, which would be the closest he came to accepting the gratitude. Martin would take it. “How's John?”

“He's trying to keep your lovely steward from coming in and, as he put it, waking the dead, not to mention the sleeping. He also claims that dealing with me daily is good practice to dealing with people like Arthur.” Sherlock sniffed, as if his friend wasn't exactly right.

Martin sat in thought for a minute. He was tired, but he didn't think he would sleep well until he saw that everyone was safe and well. He trusted his brother more than anyone, but his own eyes . . . Yeah, they needed to come in.

“Would you go get them? Just for one moment.” If anyone would understand him, it would be Sherlock and Mycroft. Martin couldn't count the number of times Sherlock had given into screaming fits to keep Martin's mum from taking him away, especially in the weeks after they had learned about just how endangered they could be. Even now, Sherlock mysteriously appeared at the hospital every time Martin was admitted, no matter how minor, sulking and saying that Martin needed to just move to London when him. And Mycroft never stopped watching his two younger brothers.

Sherlock didn't bother to respond, but he did stand. That was enough for Martin, who sat back a little. “Tell Mycroft he can come in too, if he likes.” Mycroft would be out front with everyone else, likely sitting as if he was in his club instead of a small hospital in Fitton.

“Why you would want that fat oaf in here. . .” Martin rolled his eyes. 

“John is welcome too, of course.” Martin liked Sherlock's partner, though he still had no idea if the two were dating. John was good for Sherlock, either way.

“Of course John is welcome. John is the only one any of us trust to look after you.” Martin rolled his eyes, though he did feel better knowing that it was John who had open access to his records. Knowing Mycroft, he would have sealed them away from anyone else.

“Skip, you're awake! Mum said you would wake up soon, so I went and got you a present. Look, it's cake, because they had cake at the pastry shop next door, and no one can be sad when there is cake!” Martin smiled, relieved at the smiling good cheer that Arthur exhibited.

“Be glad the he didn't decide to bring every cake flavour in the shop. It took him almost an hour and a half to choose just one.” Douglas's slow, even drawl came from the door, where he was leaning absently. 

“Douglas! Is GERTI in one piece then?” Martin grinned at his first officer. The man had switched out of his uniform, but Martin could recognise the clothes that had been in his carry-on. Douglas hadn't gone back home to change. In fact, seeing Carolyn, Martin didn't think any of them had.

“Mostly. She is never completely in one piece, of course, but nothing too important has fallen off of her.”

“Nothing except her captain, of course. Who had apparently not eaten during our layover, and then decided that it would be fun to paint pictures in his blood on top of it.” Carolyn's brash, almost harsh voice made Martin jump a little. He hadn't expected her to go right to fussing, though he didn't know what else he could have expected. Fussing was what she did, just like Sherlock. 

“Sorry, Carolyn. Hello, Mycroft. 'Lo, John.” Martin turned his attention to the last two to enter the room. Mycroft stood in the corner, leaning lightly against his umbrella. John walked over to where Martin was laying.

“'Lo Martin. Just so you know, you got Sherlock out of the flat even faster than a locked door murder.” Martin smiled.

“Nice to know he cares.”

“I don't. I just like to make sure that you don't go telling things you aren't supposed to. You are, quite possibly, the worst liar I've ever seen.”

“Thanks, Sherlock.”

Mycroft offered a sedate look around the crowded hospital room, and Martin's smile widened. Mycroft would not like it here at all – it was a testament to how much he cared about his family that he was here. Indeed, when he spoke, he was already saying good bye. “I'm pleased to see you recovering so well, Martin. I fear we are breaking several hospital rules, and I have a discussion waiting with the Russian ambassador. John, Douglas, call if you need anything.”

“John and Douglas?” Carolyn furrowed her eyebrows at Martin's eldest brother.

“They are supposed to call if Sherlock or I need anything. Mycroft doesn't trust our judgement.” Martin scowled at his brother, as did Sherlock.

“I wonder why.” Douglas's contribution earned him a scowl as well, but he just smirked. “You, Martin, are staying with me. At least until we are sure no one has noticed anything they shouldn't.”

Martin rolled his eyes, feeling ready to go back to sleep. Apparently, he was going to wake up to a fight with Douglas, if not Mycroft. And he would need plenty of rest for that, because he could never convince Douglas to do anything Douglas didn't want to.

Thankfully, John noticed Martin's wishes and ushered everyone out, even trying to convince Sherlock to leave. Sherlock refused, in a tone of voice that told everyone clearly that trying move Windsor Castle would be easier. John just sighed and left him to it, saying, “Make sure you actually let him _sleep_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorted, but he did sit peacefully beside Martin's bed. Twice, in quick succession, he tapped the back of Martin's right hand. It was the same gesture he had made when they were small and Martin had come into his room in a haze after nightmares. Sherlock had never been one for hugs and kisses, but the two quick taps – which almost hurt – were signs of affection of their own. Reminders of the presence of his older brother, who would do anything to keep him safe.

“Go to sleep, brother.”


End file.
